Unfinished
by Gaby Black
Summary: No one would ever know who Regulus Black really was, maybe not even himself. A Regulus Black character sketch.


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, JK Rowling does.

**Author's note:** a Regulus Black character sketch, each adjective starting, obviously, with a letter from his name.

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_**R**__egal_

"You're a Black, Regulus, and that makes you practically regal."

At least, that's what he used to think.

It was never spoken aloud, not even by his parents, but it showed through their words, and Bella's and Cissy's, and Regulus wanted to believe it because kings are great and powerful and noble. Kings aren't the poor soldiers who get killed by millions. They live something else. Voldemort called himself a Lord; the Blacks' place was by his side.

But Regulus, despite his name, didn't look like a king, not even a little one. Sirius looked like one: tall and impressive and handsome. Regulus was designed to be second forever, the second prince. Sirius was the one who was intended to be the king, later. Even when Sirius ran away to find another kingdom to reign on, Regulus couldn't conquer the forsaken territory. He would never fit in Sirius's place.

He would never be the king.

_**E**__xpectant_

Regulus had heard that human beings lived in permanent expectation. They were expectant of finding love and happiness; they were, always, expecting to _live_, until they learnt to stop expecting and enjoy the moment.

But Regulus didn't expect anything.

He didn't feel his classmates' impatience to live friendship, romance, and adventures.

It wasn't wisdom at such a young age; it was merely a strange kind of apathy towards life. He followed the course, trying not to get drowned.

_**G**__ullible_

When he was a child, Regulus used to believe anything his family told him. Sirius would tell him that they were Salazar Slytherin's heirs and Regulus would believe him. Sirius would laugh until they were both crying – one of laughter, the other of shame.

When he was older, Regulus still believed what his family told him, that purebloods were superior and that they had to gain power.

Regulus realized too late he should have believed in himself instead.

_**U**__nique_

He hated being compared to Sirius, whether in a bad or good way. He supposed it came with being the second son; he wondered if it would have been different if he'd been the oldest. In his early teenage years he wished he was an only child; but when Sirius left home and his wish was fulfilled, he realized being the only child didn't make him unique. The comparisons (this time, mostly positive for Regulus) still hung in the air, though Sirius's name was never spoken.

Sometimes Regulus wished for blonde hair, or brown eyes, or even an abnormally large nose – anything to make him look different from his brother and entertain the illusion that he was unique.

_**L**__onely_

Often, as he lay in bed with his eyes wide open late at night, surrounded by his sleeping dorm mates, he wondered what it was like to be loved.

_**U**__nfinished_

Regulus felt like an unfinished copy of Sirius.

Or a mere draft. It was as if the artist had forgotten to make the shoulders broader, the eyes livelier or the jaw firmer. He had the Blacks' good looks just like Sirius, but it was as though his were not complete. He was thin, pale and fragile, almost feminine in his features, which had earned him the unfortunate nickname of Pretty Face.

Regulus always felt something was missing about himself. One day he realized it was the glint of bravery in Sirius's eyes. Regulus had never had it; his grey eyes were cold and hollow – an icy pool of wintry days.

Regulus wished the painter would come to add the twinkle in the stormy eyes, so that he wouldn't have to do it himself, because bravery had never been a part of his vocabulary. Bravery was Sirius's word, had always been. Regulus thought being brave just got you killed most of the time – so what was the point?

_**S**__ecretive_

Regulus wished he had someone he could confess to, but he had no real friends, and no brother to listen to him.

He was reduced to confessing to an House Elf. And he had no one to consult when he made the most important decision of his life.

He told Kreacher to keep it secret. No one would get hurt, and he would be a secret hero, probably forever. He probably should have felt angry about that, but he didn't, not really.

And that was what his life had been: a secret, a twirl of unspoken words, fears, beliefs and feelings.

No one would ever know who Regulus Black really was, maybe not even himself.

* * *

As Regulus slowly drew the goblet towards his lips, his hand did not shake.

It was time to finish that painting.

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